


Gibson-not-Gibson

by EssayOfThoughts



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Gibson (Dunkirk) Lives, Letters, M/M, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 16:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17287586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/pseuds/EssayOfThoughts
Summary: “I owe him my life,” Tommy says, earnest and honest to the officer interrogating them. “So does Alex. Will didn’t do any worse than anyone else trying to get off that damn beach, if you’ll pardon my language, sir.”Will became the nickname Tommy used for Guillaume in the three seconds it took Tommy to realise that there was no way he could keep on saying the name without tying his tongue into knots. Will shrugged, gave his odd half-of-a-smile, and Tommy thinks that of all the things that might get him leniency for being on British soil, a British nickname can’t hurt.





	Gibson-not-Gibson

**Author's Note:**

> An AU supposing that Gibson-not-Gibson survives and makes it to the Moonstone with Tommy and Alex.
> 
> I listened to [Plastic Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2U7xjHlEGsU) from the John Wick 2 Soundtrack while writing this.

 

“Guillaume,” the French soldier says, offering Tommy his hand. “ _ Je m’appelle Guillaume _ .”

Tommy looks at him - the slight hunched angle to his shoulders that just seems more pronounced he’s landed on British soil, his darting eyes, always avoidant and careful - and grasps his hand tight. “Tommy,” he says. “Tommy Walker.”

It’s in heavily accented English that Guillaume says, “You saved my life.”

Maybe. Tommy doesn’t think Alex would have actually tried to  _ kill _ him, would have actually tried to push him onto the deck, not once the bullets were flying. He thinks:  _ Alex was as shit-scared as any of us. _ He had hauled Guillaume onto the deck, helped haul him onto the  _ Moonstone _ , had stood up for him, and helped him get away from Dunkirk. But:

“You saved my life,” he manages, in what remains of his schoolboy French. “On the boat when it was sinking. The torpedo. You saved me.”

Guillaume shrugs, gives a nervous smile, slowly disentangles their hands.

_ “Merci,” _ he says.

Tommy looks at him, a skinny scared boy not much older than he is, wearing clothes stolen from the dead, still half-soaked and coated in oil.

“Come on,” he says, clapping a hand on Guillaume’s shoulder. “Let’s get a shower.”

 

* * *

 

The showers are  _ warm. _ After the stink of sweat and salt and oil and smoke, after the chill that has sunk it’s way into their bones, none of them have even the slightest hint of shame in the communal showers, turning and basking in the heat.

They only have a limited time, but no one cares. They’re  _ warm, _ they’re  _ clean, _ they’re going to be given clean clothes after this, before they're assessed and given briefings for the rest of the war.

As they leave the showers, rough towels tucked around their hips, Guillaume falls into step beside Tommy. As they’re pulling on the provided clothes, Guillaume says, “My English-”

“Is terrible.” Tommy offers a reassuring smile. “Stick with me. I’ll try to see you safe.”

 

* * *

 

Guillaume, it turns out, is in something of a grey area. He’s a Frenchman, when none of the French are supposed to have been brought over yet. He stole a British uniform and tags from a dead man, but he saved unknown numbers of lives when the ships went down, pulling them onto the beams with Tommy, and again, opening the hatch on the torpedoed ship.

“I owe him my life,” Tommy says, earnest and honest to the officer interrogating them. “So does Alex. Will didn’t do any worse than anyone else trying to get off that damn beach, if you’ll pardon my language, sir.”

Will became the nickname Tommy used for Guillaume in the three seconds it took Tommy to realise that there was no way he could keep on saying the name without tying his tongue into knots. Will shrugged, gave his odd half-of-a-smile, and Tommy thinks that of all the things that might get him leniency for being on British soil, a British nickname can’t hurt.

 

* * *

 

Tommy and Will part ways. Will knows his ID number, though, and his name, and how to find him, so as Tommy is shunted around to new place after new place, before they finally get around to sending him to the front once more, he’s chased by letters.

Turns out, Will writes better English than he speaks.

 

* * *

 

_ Dear Tommy, _

_ They haven’t told me what’s going to happen yet - I think they don’t trust me. Maybe they think I’m… what was it Alex called me? A cowardly frog, yes? Maybe I am. It is very boring, though, doing nothing. I’m with other soldiers - injured English and a few French, at ------. They’re teaching me better English - and helping with my writing. _

_ Jacques thinks we are to be used as spies, sent back to sabotage German efforts, or infiltrate their territory and the collaborators to bring back information. I wouldn’t mind that. Better than doing nothing. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Your Will, _

_ Guillaume d’Aboville _

 

* * *

 

Some of the boys laugh at the letters Tommy gets, call Will his sweetheart. Tommy thinks it’s more that once two people save each other’s lives while barely knowing each other, there’s a bond there that’s hard to break. If he had the time, he’d track down Mr Dawson and his boy; thank them for getting them back home, but he’s barely had a moment. It’s all  _ go here, go there, wait, move, bunker down, ONWARDS BOYS! _

Onwards to victory, that’s the hope.

 

* * *

 

_ Dear Tommy, _

_ I hope you’re safe at the front. I know you won’t be, but I hope. I hope you write to me, too, when you can - and that you get someone to write if anything should happen to you. I don’t think I need to save your life again, but I will if it comes to it. I know France better than you, after all. _

_ They’ve decided what to do with us. We’re being paired off, half of us being sent in to infiltrate --------, the other half are staying back to act as contacts and to teach French to your lot. Command has high hopes. _

_ We don’t know yet, how we’re going to be paired off. I hope I get to work with Jacques, he at least seems to know what’s going on. Doubt it though. _

_ If we get assigned, I don’t know how often I’ll be able to write, or if I’ll be able to write at all. I don’t even know how often I’ll get your letters, but please send them all the same. _

_ Wishing you safety _

_ Your Will. _

 

* * *

 

Tommy guesses Will’s been assigned because he hears nothing for months. He sends his letters off - to home, to friends, to Will, waits for Will’s replies that don’t come, until:

 

* * *

 

_ Tommy! _

_ So many letters to come home to! I’m glad you are still alive. I wish I was sorry to hear about Alex, but I am a bad Christian and am not. I hope you do not think poorly of me for that. _

_ I am having to rest up at -------; I broke my leg tripping over a sandbag of all things, and command wants to move me elsewhere besides. Jacques is filling in for me until we get our next assignments. I wish I could tell you about what we’ve been doing, but it’s not allowed. One day, perhaps, if we both make it through this. _

_ I hope you are doing well, that it is not too bad where you are, _

_ Constant as ever, _

_ Your Will. _

 

* * *

 

_ Dear Will, _

_ I won’t judge you over Alex if you do not judge me. He threatened you and me both - you for being you, and me for defending you. I understand why he did it, but he still did. After everything I’ve seen at the front though, all I can think of his death is “at least it was quick”. Out here, a wound could get infected far too easily. Alex went down to bullets. _

_ The front is always on the move - back and forth and side to side, trying to evade capture as much as death. Some boys are hopeful the movement means it’s all going to be over soon, but I doubt it. I remember how Dunkirk would seem hopeful one moment and hopeless the next. Even if you can’t tell me what you’ve been up to I hope it’s things that have been helping us. We need all the help we get. _

_ Heal up, Will. Enjoy England while she’s underneath your feet. _

_ And for God’s sakes, please stay safe. _

_ Wishing you well, _

_ Your Tommy. _

 

* * *

 

The men who used to call Will his sweetheart are gone now - Alex was the last. He’s not entirely sure if they were right or wrong, he’s not entirely sure it matters. Oh there are those back home who’d condemn it, sure, but out here, at the front?

He’s heard the noises from the other men’s bunks at night, as clearly as they all have. No one says a word.

 

* * *

 

Will heads back out just as Tommy is sent home - cut on his foot got so infected they’re worried they may have to cut it off. They don’t, in the end, just barely, and they don’t shove Tommy back to the front immediately either. Everyone knows not to push luck too far - a Dunkirk boy, surviving the bombing, surviving the front, surviving an infection. They want to hold onto the luck he seems to carry like a flag.

He’s assigned to paperwork while his foot heals up, going over reports and reports and more reports, making sure important information gets passed up the chain and that assignments are handed out to the right people.

After a week he starts recognising initials and codewords. After a fortnight and access to a newspaper he thinks he’s got it figured out.

Will’s not just a spy or an infiltrator or a saboteur. He’s all goddamn three.

And he’s a  _ good _ one.

 

* * *

 

Will comes back to base in scurrying swiftness. The Germans had started to guess what he was doing, so Jacques is having to fill in for him again, while his absence keeps him safe.

Jacques doesn’t seem to mind having to fill the gap - Will’s done jobs on Jacques behalf enough times the man owes him.

He comes back to base and is face to face with Tommy.

 

* * *

 

They don’t hug in front of everyone but it’s a close-run thing. Will’s got three new scars, Tommy’s foot is still tender and they wait until they’re locked in Tommy’s office before they finally make sure the other is definitely real.

There’s no smell of oil. No smell of salt. Just one another, there and present and whole. Tommy’s thumb takes one moment to examine one of Will’s scars, Will’s hand is gentle on Tommy’s elbow, balancing him for sake of his foot.

“Agent d'Aboville,” Tommy says.

“Sir,” says Will.

They sit at either side of the desk, their fingers scant inches from touching.

 

* * *

 

After debriefing, after fact-checking, they troop down to the pub. They sit in a corner where Tommy can prop his foot up on a low stool and Will can complain about the quality of British beer.

It gets rowdier for a bit and then it gets quieter, officers tucking themselves into corners with their drinks in silence. Will’s shoulder is warm against Tommy’s and with the added warmth of three pints in their bellies they lean against each other with an odd kind of ease.

“Sometimes,” Will says softly - and with the drink his voice slurs into a hint of his accent - “Sometimes I remember the boat and the chains. I remember drowning.”

Tommy’s hand finds Will’s on the bench between them. “The boat,” he says. “The torpedo. I couldn’t even see and then the door opened.”

Will’s fingers squeeze his.

“Sometimes,” Will says, “I don’t know why I survived.”

 

* * *

 

By the time they get back, the base is quiet. They’re hand in hand, ostensibly in case Tommy’s foot gives him trouble but mostly to feel the other  _ there _ and  _ alive. _

They stumble into Tommy’s tiny office hand in hand. Tommy backs towards the desk, gives his foot a break, and Will interlinks their fingers. There’s a warm fog in both their minds, warm and gentle, and the soft presence of the other’s fingers interlinked to their own is almost mesmerising in it’s soothingness.

“Will,” Tommy says. Swallows. “Guillaume-”

Will’s hands don’t move from his. “Tommy.”

There’s a moment of stillness, of silence. Their thumbs gently circle the soft skin of their hands, watching each other carefully, almost liked spooked cats, leaning closer and closer by increments. Their lips meet almost by accident. Will’s hand cup’s Tommy’s jaw, Tommy’s hands pull Will closer.

“Will,” Tommy whispers, a breath against skin.

“Tommy,” Will says, the word swallowed by their next kiss.

“Do you-” Tommy asks.

Will’s lips make a warm and certain line along Tommy’s jaw. “Yes.”

Tommy pulls Will closer with one leg, Will’s hands find Tommy’s face, sketch out the lines he then kisses, Tommy’s hands slipping beneath Will’s shirt, fingertips sketching along bare skin.

They can feel each other, pressed so close, cocks, hard and straining but they stay at soft kisses, gentle teasing until they’re both panting and desperate, staring into each other’s eyes, waiting.

“Guillaume,” Tommy says, his hands on the waistband of Will’s trousers. Will looks half-drunk with pleasure, eyes glazed and half-lidded from want and alcohol both.

“Yes,” Will says. “Please, please.”

Tommy kisses him, full on the mouth, fingers fumbling with the button, with cloth, until he holds Will in his hand. Will groans into his neck.

Tommy is careful at first, tentative and gentle until Will’s hand takes hold of him, his other hand tight in his hair, pulling his head back for a kiss. Their hands move together, motions as in time as a march, left, right, left, turning into a steady back and forth, and they’re both gasping and groaning, whispering each other’s names between kisses until they spill free.

“Tommy,” Will breathes against his neck.

Tommy’s hands rest on Will’s hips. “Guillaume.”

He can feel Will’s smile against his skin - a full smile, not the perpetual half-of-a-smile from Dunkirk, but something full and warm. “Will,” he says. “Your Will. You call me that.  _ Only _ you call me that.”

Tommy presses their lips together again.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments!


End file.
